


As Mine Eyes Fool Me

by MiHnn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Banshee Lydia Martin, Character Death, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t happen quickly, the way it should. It happens too slowly, each pause of a second agonisingly pulled until her body is taught and her throat hurts from the effort of keeping the scream in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing is Believing

**Author's Note:**

> Because clearly I have a love of taking my favourite characters and putting them through immense pain. 
> 
> Just an idea I had of 'What if the Nogitsune hadn't separated itself from Stiles?'

It doesn’t happen quickly, the way it should. It happens too slowly, each pause of a second agonisingly pulled until her body is taught and her throat hurts from the effort of keeping the scream in. 

She watches from the floor, her hands coloured with Aiden’s blood as Kira’s sword goes through his body, her face betraying surprise and panic. He snaps back and gasps, a sneer on his lips only for a second before he falls onto his knees as the sword is pulled clumsily out of him. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembers a book on medical mysteries where one out of every hundred people could survive such a fatal wound to the chest. Surgery is a given but the recovery time differs as to how fast he can be given medical help. 

She winces when she hears Scott’s voice cry painfully over the silence. 

_“No!”_

He is no longer a wolf, but a boy, when he catches Stiles in his arms, guiding them both gently onto the floor so that he settles his best friend onto his lap with a gentle shake. 

She remembers that he had held Allison like this not long before and, surely, the universe can’t be so cruel. 

“Scott…” Kira’s voice breaks, her sword clattering to the floor with a sickening sound, it’s blade too red for Lydia to look at. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…” 

But his eyes are only for his friend—his brother. Scott’s hands clutch him hard, taking all the pain he can as with a blink of an eye, Stiles’ eyes clear and he clutches at his best friend’s shoulders. 

He shakes, he spasms, and he laughs. “I never thought I’d ever be this close to you, buddy.”

Scott laughs amidst tears until a trickle of blood is choked out the corner of Stiles’ mouth, and his laughter stops abruptly, his face masking with resolve. He makes a move to carry his best friend, but Stiles winces, gasping for breath, his hands clutching Scott tighter. “Don’t…” 

“I have to get you to the hospital,” Scott mumbles, more to himself, sniffing to keep the tears at bay. “I have to—“

“Scott!” Stiles’ grip on his t-shirt twists, his words coming out rushed and breathless. “This had to happen. You know that, right?” 

Scott shakes his head. “No. You’ll be fine. I can get you help.” 

“I killed people, Scott. I killed…” He takes in a long, painful breath. 

Scott shifts his arms under him, his gaze falling on the wound that had punctured his best friend’s lung. “We’ll fix this,” he says softly, over and over, like a chant. “We can fix this.”

“Scott… Listen to me,” Stiles gasps, the words labouring out of him. His hands clutch at Scott’s face, making his friend look at him. Lydia sees the blood leave a trail on Scott’s jaw and she feels the sob in her throat. “You’ve gotta… tell my dad. It’s not his… fault, okay?” Scott shakes his head, but Stiles’ hold on him tightens. “You gotta tell him… Scott!” His voice becomes fierce, his meaning clear. “He’ll blame… himself. You know… he will.” 

Scott ducks his head out of his friend’s grasp, his eyes shadowed with something that Lydia will later recognise as denial. “The hospital is close. I think I can get you to the emergency room.”

He tries to lift Stiles once again, but Stiles clutches onto his t-shirt. “Promise me. Scott!” His voice breaks. 

“I don’t… I can’t…” 

Stiles shakes him, but his grip is too weak and it seems too flimsy in Lydia’s eyes. “You gotta do this… for me,” he whispers, tears falling in a steady stream down his cheeks. He smiles then, a sad sort of smile that will haunt Lydia for the rest of her life. “You’re… my brother.” 

Scott doesn’t stop the sob choking out of him, his grip tightening around his friend before he suddenly stiffens. 

“Stiles…” he says softly, shaking him gently, his voice pleading through his tears. “Stiles… Come on…” He shakes him harder, his voice becoming urgent. “This isn’t funny. Stiles!” His grip tightens further as he shakes his friend again, and again, and again. “Stiles. That’s enough. Stop that. Stiles!” 

But Lydia sees the way his eyes are open, staring into nothing, and she feels her breath quicken and her chest heave because this has to be a nightmare. It can’t be real because she can’t breathe. 

“Stiles…” she hears Scott say over and over, shaking his friend, asking him to wake up through sniffs that remind her that they are still teenagers handling things far beyond them. “I promise I’ll watch all the Star Wars movies with you. You want that, right? A marathon at your place? I’ll do that. Any day of the week, I’ll do that. Stiles!” 

But then his head happens to fall to the side, his eyes—cold, lifeless eyes—facing her and something inside her snaps. 

She screams.

* * *

Some might say she is in a state of numbness. She watches it all with a sense of detachment: the way the paramedics declare the time of death with two fingers to his throat; the way his father kneels at his side, tears gasping through him, his hands pink from how he clutches at his son; the way Scott sits beside her quietly, because she’s the only other person who understands the way he feels the loss.

She shakes her head stiffly with every question she is asked and let the paramedics clean her hands with a washcloth because the blood is hardening under her fingernails. 

For the first time in her life she doesn’t know the answer to the question, “What now?”

* * *

The first time she sees him is in the hospital. She hadn’t noticed the deep gash on her leg or the scratches across her arms and cheek. They apply the numbing agent, which she doesn’t feel before they lead her to sit outside next to Scott. He stays silent, staring at his shoes until his father happens to walk by.

They look at each other, a silent war going on between them as the Agent continues on by without a word. Lydia can’t help but notice his blackening eye. 

“What happened?” she asks softly, not expecting a reply. 

Scott’s voice is thick as he whispers, “He said he was sorry.” She watches as he flexes his fingers before they form into a fist. “I didn’t want to hear it.” 

They sit in silence for a moment before they call, “Mr McCall.” They should know by now that he never gets hurt, she thinks. 

The hallway is white and empty, the smell of disinfectant strong, so she closes her eyes and exhales slowly to calm her nerves. 

When she does open her eyes, she frowns at the sneakers she sees before her. Their familiarity gnaws at her as she raises her gaze past the jeans, the t-shirt and the anxiously bouncing leg to feel her heart stutter. 

He sits before her in the chair opposite the hall, his hands held together and his head bowed low in what she recognised as his worried expression. He looks around, eyes darting up and down the hall with so much nervous energy that her heart aches. She doesn’t notice that her nails are digging into the leather seat under her as the tears stream down her face. 

“Lydia?”

Her eyes snap up to look at Scott before they land on the chair once again; the clearly very empty chair before her.

“You okay?”

She twitches before she takes a deep breath to steady her nerves. “I’m fine.”

The truth is that she is not fine. She is most certainly _not_ fine.

* * *

She watches as Scott clutches his mother and cries, Lydia’s own eyes brimming with tears as she sees the way Melissa McCall is shedding tears for Stiles as if he was her own son. “He’s gone,” he sobs into her shoulder, every bit the boy rather than an Alpha with his own pack. “He’s really gone.”

A movement in the corner of Lydia’s eye makes her think she saw those same sneakers go around the corner a moment ago, but all she sees is an empty hall, so she places the thought at the back of her mind.

* * *

She sees him again a few hours after, when she’s sitting alone in the car. She watches her mother leave her to get her something to eat and she exhales slowly, letting her head rest against the glass of the car as her breath fogs the window. Her finger traces an imaginary curve that dips and moves until it forms a circle.

Through her drawn image she sees the dark hair of someone walking back and forth. Rubbing away the rest of the mist, she sees his form, nervously walking up and down a few feet away, turning his back on her with every twist of his heel. His arms are moving animatedly, as if he is practicing a speech or trying to convince someone of something. When she finally sees his face her heartbeat slams to a stop. 

Her fingers shake as she tries and fails to open the car door. She watches keenly, keeping her eyes on him as her fingers miss the lock, pull against the handle wrong and she slams her palms against the door with utter frustration. With a sob she finally throws open the door and runs out only to stop a few feet after when she finds herself standing in an empty parking lot. 

She turns around, her breath caught tight in her throat as she looks for him. 

But, there is no trace of him. No proof that he was even here.

“Lydia? What are you doing? Did something happen?” 

Lydia doesn’t even bother trying to look strong. The moment she hears her mother’s voice she runs to her and cries against her shoulder. Her mother drops the bag of food to pull her close, shushing her in a way that reminds her of her childhood. It’s the first time in a long time her mother hugs her so tightly.

* * *

She spends Allison’s funeral gripping Isaac and Scott tightly with each hand, standing tall and proud with tears streaking down her face while the two boys break beside her. She can be their anchor, she thinks, as she says goodbye to the best friend she had ever had the only way she knows how.

She spends Stiles’ funeral watching him run around in circles, laughing with his fist in the air as if he has just scored a goal, his image fading before her eyes fall onto the coffin as it is lowered into the ground and covered in dirt. 

She thinks that she’s never seen Scott so broken, and never felt it so tangibly that her heart _hurt_.

* * *

He’s in her bedroom come morning and she doesn’t understand _why_. She sits cowering against the headboard, her arms around her knees as she watches him walk around her bedroom with a skip in his step. He cocks his head to the side, bends down, stares at something and moves on. He’s looking at things that aren’t there, passing things that are without a glance.

She’s shivering so badly with fear that her teeth hurt. 

She feels a scream building in her chest, one so powerful that it might end her voice, but her fear keeps it in check as she watches him. Tears build in her eyes and she buries her face against her knees. 

“Please go away,” she whispers. “Please go away.”

She can’t look at him. He can’t be here because he’s gone and it hurts every cell in her body just to think of it. 

“Please…” she pleads with a broken voice. “Please.” 

She raises her head to see him sitting on her desk, eyes sunken in as he looks to the side. His shoulders are slumped and the sunrise seems to brighten his appearance as it falls through the window. 

He shrugs lightly and says, “Yeah, I can’t sleep without my pillow.” 

She screams.

* * *

She stops going to school for as long as she can because no one sits in his chair out of respect. And every time she looks over at it, she sees him tapping his pencil on the table with an unimaginative tune, his head bobbing as if he has no care in the world.

It distracts her. Every movement calls to her. It makes her want to scream.

* * *

She doesn’t tell her mother; she doesn’t tell anyone.

She doesn’t tell them how she sees him standing around her, his nervous energy distracting her as she tries to go about her work. She doesn’t tell them how he whispers, “You’re beautiful, you don’t need so much makeup,” when she sits in front of a mirror to apply concealer under her eyes. 

She doesn’t tell them that she sees the way he stiffens when someone mentions him around her or the way he smiles sadly when Scott happens to say he’s doing all right. 

She doesn’t tell them that before she goes to sleep at night, she hears the way he sighs heavily and says, “I love you, Lydia. I don’t why it took me so long to say it—”

She screws her eyes shut, and throws a pillow over her head, but his voice sounds too close to ignore, anyway. 

Every day is a battle for her sanity and every day she feels like she’s losing her mind little by little. 

It’s not until his fingers brush against her arm, causing a cold shiver to wrack her body, does she finally lose her sanity completely.

* * *

It’s Scott who holds her down, his hands like iron against her arms as she squirms and trembles on the metal table at the vet’s.

“Please… “ She sobs, because she can’t do this anymore. She can’t see him. “Make it stop.” 

“What happened?” Deaton asks quietly, his voice usually calm has an edge to it. 

“I don’t know. She suddenly screamed and collapsed during class. I thought you would know what this is.”

“Please…” she can’t help but sob. “Make it stop.” 

“Make what stop?” Deaton asks patiently. “Lydia? Make what stop?”

She doesn’t say it at first, her tears running rampant as she eyes Scott with panicked eyes. She can’t tell him, of all people. She can’t see the hope in his eyes. She bites her lip and shakes her head from side to side. Deaton seems to understand. 

“Scott, there is a vial out in front with a blue liquid. Bring that to me.” 

Scott hesitates for a moment before he leaves. Deaton faces her once again. 

“What are you not telling us, Lydia?”

“Stiles,” she finally moans in a whisper. “I see Stiles everywhere.”

His brow furrows. “Do you see him now?”

She turns her head to the right only to see him leaning against the wall, his eyes studying her with worry. She nods slowly as she turns to face Deaton. 

Deaton follows her gaze and his brows furrow further. “How long have you been seeing him?”

“I don’t know… Weeks.” She gasps as she tries to sit up, but with a firm hand he holds her down. 

“I think I can help you,” he says softly, just as Scott returns with a vial of blue liquid in his hands. “It’s up to you whether you want it.”

* * *

“I don’t understand…” Scott looks between them with confusion. “He’s _here_?”

Deaton nods. “Part of him. We all leave a trace when we die. Supernatural beings, such as yourselves, leave a bigger presence than others.”

“But, Stiles was human.”

“Stiles was possessed by a Nogitsune when he died. He was still very much… supernatural.” 

“Okay, but what does that mean?”

“It means that Lydia has a decision to make.” 

At the sound of her name she looks up from the floor to see them both looking at her. 

Deaton’s smile is gentle. “You’re his anchor to the world of the living. You were his anchor before he died, and even more so now. That’s why you can see him. As a Banshee you can hear the voices of the dead, but because of your connection to Stiles you can see his echo.”

She tries to ignore the way Scott flinches right next to her, running her tongue over her chapped lips. “Echo?”

“His presence,” Deaton says. “What he did when he was alive.”

“What happens when you break this connection?” Scott asks. “Is it dangerous?”

“No, not at all. It just means that he will go where he needs to go.”

“Where is that?”

Deaton pauses, his next words cautious. “What happens after death is something that will always remain a mystery until our time comes, I fear.” 

“If I do this,” Lydia asks softly, her eyes falling on Stiles. “I’ll stop seeing him?”

“That’s the hope,” Dean says carefully. When she says nothing more, he finally asks her, “Is something wrong?”

“What if…?” she stops when she sees the way Stiles’ eyes widen as if he knows what she is about to say. 

“What if…?” Deaton says, encouraging her. 

“What if it’s not just an echo?” She watches as Stiles’ gaze narrows with warning, a quick shake of his head showing her that her suspicions just might be right. “What if he’s really here?”

Deaton shares a look with Scott, his face marring with confusion. “It’s not… impossible.” 

“What does that mean?” Scott asks cautiously. 

Lydia recognises Scott’s expression immediately, his face open after weeks of being closed by grief. She recognises the hope so deeply that she feels it to. 

“It means,” Deaton says, “I can work with that.”


	2. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... Remember how I said this was going to be two-shot. It just went up to three. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the delay. This was an exhausting chapter to write.

There are moments when she finds herself confused, wondering when her life shifted from spending Friday nights out in society, pretending to eat carbs and laughing at all those who were doing nothing at home, to hiding out at the Vet’s with a werewolf and an emissary contemplating the reappearance of a person she watched die and then get buried. 

Lydia thinks that anyone else would have pleaded insanity by now. She thinks that she’s that much closer to it herself. 

“Do you still see him?” Deaton asks carefully, watching as Lydia looks behind him, a small smile of familiarity playing on her lips. 

“Yes.” She forces herself not to look at Scott, who she knows is eying her intensely. 

“Can he see you?” Deaton asks patiently.

His question causes her to pause as she looks between Deaton and Scott incredulously. “I don’t know. I never tried…”

“Try now,” Deaton says, as if that is the most obvious thing to do in the world. 

She sees the way Scott’s eyes widen as she faces a wall she knows looks like empty space to the two men standing on the either side of her. She watches as Stiles shrugs, his shoulder slumping as he leans against the wall with his neck craning to the side. She waits until his glance falls in her direction and she waves, tentatively, a small smile playing on her lips in a way that doesn’t mask her hope. She tries to hide the sinking feeling in her chest when his eyes keep moving past her. 

“He doesn’t see me,” she says softly, because somehow that’s worse. And she realises with a pang exactly _why_ she had never thought to communicate with him. The disappointment is almost too much. 

She can practically hear the heavy breath Scott releases, and she can’t help but share an understanding, albeit a disappointing smile with the only other person in the room who has the same stakes as she did, if not more so. 

“Can you hear him?” Deaton asks carefully.

“Sometimes,” Lydia says too honestly.

Scott can’t help but lean forward and eye her eagerly, his eyes sparkling with hope. “What does he say?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs even though she’s aware that her shoulders are too stiff to make the movement look casual. “Things. Stiles sort of things. I’m sure they don't make any sense to anyone but him.” She keeps her gaze on Scott, since from the corner of her eye she can see the suspicion in the emissary’s gaze. 

“You said there’s something we can do about this,” Scott tells Deaton. “Whatever it is, we’ll do it.” 

Deaton hesitates a moment before he nods. “There is a chance—a _good_ chance under the right circumstances—that we can bring him back.”

“Resurrect him?” Lydia can’t help but whisper, the nightmares that had plagued her with regards to Peter causing an unwanted shiver of dread to travel up her spine. 

Deaton nods. “It’s not easy. We’ll need to use the power of the Nemeton.”

Scott shakes his head, his expression confused. “The last time someone used the Nemeton to resurrect herself, she ended up killing innocent people for a sacrifice. Stiles would never let anyone die because of him.” 

“A sacrifice is needed for a resurrection, yes,” says Deaton, “but it need not be something living… or mortal.”

Lydia’s eyes widen with understanding. “The Nogitsune.”

Giving her a curt nod, Deaton turns towards Scott. “You said that you had the Nogitsune trapped…?”

Scott nods. “Isaac, he… He caught it like you said we should. He has it. Or he gave it to… Allison’s dad,” he says roughly, his jaw working hard. 

Even after so many weeks, hearing her best friend’s name is torture. Lydia tries her hardest to fight the tears threatening to spill over, and turns to face the object of their discussion. She nearly laughs when she sees him pacing, and the way he rolls his eyes as if he has just heard a stupid suggestion. 

Deaton’s gaze flicks over her before he faces Scott again. “We’ll need it.”

Scott nods, his shoulders straightening with determination. “I’ll get it.”

“Lydia,” Deaton says suddenly, effectively drawing her attention. “I need you to get something of Stiles’. Something that can connect you to him.”

She nods, because she can guess how it will work, since the memory of three of her friends staying under icy cold water for sixteen hours is not something she will ever forget. 

“It is best to do this on the night of the full moon, when the Nemeton can draw on its power. That gives us close to two weeks to get what we need.”

“What else do we need?” asks Scott, voicing the question she’s about to ask. 

Deaton hesitates, his expression apologetic. “We’ll need Stiles’ body.”

Lydia feels a silent gasp escape her lips as Scott winces as if he had just been punched in the gut. “You want us to dig him up?” she asks, incredulously. Even though they are working on reviving him, the very thought of disturbing his resting place seems… wrong. 

“If you can bring him back,” Deaton says as he meets her gaze, “the Nemeton will have to heal his body so he has a something to come back to. Without it, the ritual is useless.” 

She turns towards Scott and sees the internal battle he’s waging within himself. The very thought that he might have to dig up his best friend is horrific, and Lydia can’t help but sympathise with his plight. 

“Maybe we could ask Derek—”

“No,” Scott says forcefully, his voice strengthening with determination. “I’ll do it. Is that all?”

“There is one more thing.” Deaton says as he turns his attention on her once again. “What we are going to attempt is not easy. It won’t be easy on you. If we cannot exchange Stiles’ life for the Nogitsune’s, there is a chance that your sacrifice might be accepted in its place.” 

Scott’s eyes widen as he turns towards her. “You mean…”

“He means I might not make it,” Lydia says softly, suddenly the puzzle that is the mystery of her connection to Stiles clicking into place with loud clangs in her head. This is what it really means to be someone’s anchor, she thinks, the chance to exchange your life for another’s, not just to ground them in reality. Had she been alone, she would have laughed at the irony of her situation. Somehow she doubts Scott will find her thoughts as funny as she does. 

Scott shakes his head vehemently. “No. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Deaton says apologetically. “Unfortunately, if you want Stiles back, this is the only way. But, of course, you could always break the connection you share with Stiles.”

She can see the way Scott’s jaw tightens and the way his hands form into fists as he contemplates keeping her safe over bringing his best friend back. She feels the thrumming in her chest against such an idea, but knowing it is not the best time, it doesn’t stop a giggle from escaping her. Her eyes widen when she sees the incredulous looks Scott and Deaton throw her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes are sincere even though her voice is far from it. “I just remembered the time Stiles tried to do that weird flip thing with Danny’s skateboard? You remember that, right? He fell on his ass and then blamed Danny for faulty merchandise? Do you remember what he said then, Scott?”

Scott’s gaze holds onto hers intensely as he swallows back something before quoting his best friend. “He said that he will perfect that backflip by the time of your eighteenth birthday even if it kills him.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly with a smile. “I think we owe him that chance, don’t you?” 

She sees the way his shoulders slump at her words, and she can’t help but think that that is the cruellest thing she has ever told Scott McCall. 

Maybe she is the optimist of the group now or maybe it’s the fact that she can’t shake the feeling that she is _meant_ to do this. Whatever it is, if she can help Scott prioritise Stiles the way he should, she thinks her methods just might be worth it.

* * *

The drive back to her place is quiet, with Scott’s fingers tightening around the steering wheel of his Mom’s car and Lydia breathing slowly in an effort to calm her racing heart.

There are certain words that keep playing around in her mind. 

_’Nemeton’_ and _‘death’_ and _‘sacrifice’_ are the only three that hold her attention the most. 

It’s Scott who speaks first, his voice soft and strained, breaking through the thick silence. “You don’t have to do it.”

She can hear the longing in his voice, the hope he has that even though he says the words, she might not take them to heart. 

“I know,” she says gently, because that is Scott. He will always give people the choice to choose the path with least harm. It’s something predictable in an unpredictable world and his words only serve to relax her tense shoulders. 

“You could do what Deaton says,” he continues as if she hadn’t said a word. “You could break the connection and…” He pauses, unable to say the words as the car pulls up in front of her house seconds before he kills the engine. “We could let him go,” he says finally, his voice cracking painfully.

The words sound foreign, as if it’s a concept none of them want to dwell on for fear that it might become reality. Lydia wonders if this is what fear truly is, not the need to survive when the threat of death hangs over you, but the dread to say something because you are terrified it might become real. 

They sit in silence, neither one of them making a move before she feels the demands of the day press on her shoulders and make her want to collapse with exhaustion. “I’ll think about it,” she says quietly, because she understands that _that_ is what he’s after. If something happens—if something happens to _her_ —he will never forgive himself for not stopping her. He needs that assurance that she’s going into it willingly, knowing the consequences. 

She makes a move to get out of the car when he stops her with her name.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks genuinely confused, and dare she think, hurt. She understands instantly why Allison had never been able to deny him anything, because Scott McCall had never looked at her the way she had seen him look at others, and it’s disturbing to see such vulnerability in someone she has only considered as ‘strong’ for so long. 

“I thought I was crazy,” she says honestly, tears prickling her eyes. “I thought I was losing it and I didn’t want you to worry.”

He nods, like he understands her and then he hesitates for a moment. “Is he here? Now?”

She realises from the way he asks the question that he had been waiting to ask her for hours. She can’t help but admire such restraint. She shakes her head slowly before thinking it through, and watches as his shoulders deflate with disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I just—” He lets out a low breath. “How is he?” he asks her earnestly. “Is he… okay?”

“I think so. I don’t know.” She shrugs lightly and reaches for the handle. “Thank you for dropping me home.”

“It’s no problem,” he mumbles distractedly. 

As she is about to step out, he draws her attention again. “Hey. I was serious. You don’t have to do it.”

She smiles, because she appreciates the way he keeps trying to give her an out. But they both know that she won’t take it. “I know,” she says again before she gets out of the car. As she is about to close the door, she hesitates. “I don’t think we should tell the Sheriff what we’re doing,” she says cautiously. “Maybe we should just keep what we’re doing to ourselves.” _Just in case it doesn’t work_ , goes unsaid. _Just in case we fail and he has to lose his son all over again._

Scott shares a sad, understanding smile with her. “I know.”

Lydia nods before she closes the car door quickly and makes her way up the path towards her front door. 

She tries to ignore the way Stiles’ eyes follow her as she enters her house and close the door behind her.

* * *

Maybe it’s the silliest thing. She remembers the day Stiles had brought them all together, Scott, Allison and herself to give them all similar key rings as inconspicuously as he possibly could during a free period. Which, for Stiles, wasn’t that inconspicuous at all.

She remembers the way Allison frowned as she studied the keys he had given them all. “How did you get these?”

Sidestepping the question, Stiles had just tossed a key ring to each of them. “Look, the way I see it, with werewolves, alphas, druids and your charming boyfriend—”

“Ex-boyfriend,” Lydia had said with a roll of her eyes.

“Fine. _Ex_ -boyfriend..." He raised an eyebrow at her and she had shrugged. "Things are not good around here. We _need_ to be ready. We need a series of plans from B to Z just in case. And since some of us can’t really huff and puff and break down a door—”

Scott had scoffed. 

“This is our failsafe. If any one of us are in trouble, you just need to turn the key to get inside. Believe me it's the best way to protect personal property.” He had slammed the table and leaned back, all smug and proud as if he was waiting for a wall of praise to hit him in the face. 

Scott had laughed with amusement. “Do we even _want_ to know how you got their house keys?” 

“Really, Scott?" Stiles had asked his best friend, completely insulted by the question. "That’s what you’re concentrating on? I’m giving everyone here a chance to come to each other’s defence when we need it and you focus on that? For the love of _God_!” He had sniffed and muttered that last phrase before shrugging. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

What a time to be thankful, she thinks, as she turns the key in the lock and let’s herself into the Stilinski household. As the Sheriff is on duty, she takes her time as she makes her way up the stairs and into Stiles’ bedroom. 

It’s an awful thing, to see that nothing has been changed. His laptop is still open, some of his clothes strewn messily on the foot of his bed and his wall of cases intact with red string and all. 

She doesn’t know why it happens, but seeing it all, knowing that he’s not here causes a pain in her chest so severe that crying doesn’t seem enough. But she does cry, loud sobs that she tries to keep locked in her throat but they fight through and she hiccups as she covers her mouth while hot tears fall down her cheeks. She takes a few moments, lets it ride out, and then with a shake of her head, tries to hold it in. She came here for a specific item, after all. She can’t be distracted. 

She starts at his table, her fingers shaking as they carefully brush against items without really touching them. The truth is she’s afraid to take things, to disturb the silence. Her eyes fall on the framed picture of her drawing before she blinks and looks away, searching for something else. 

It takes her a few minutes but she tires quickly, and against her better judgement, she finds herself sitting on his bed with her hands on her lap. She doesn’t know where to start. She doesn’t know what to take. 

She isn’t startled when he appears right next to her, sitting on the bed with her with his head low as he studies her hands. She watches him, the way his leg bounces, that nervous tick only he seems to possess. 

“There’s gotta be something,” he mumbles, his eyes rising to study the board. “There has to be something I’m missing.”

She watches the way he twitches, the way he sits up straighter and circles his shoulders to make himself relax. She watches the way he bites the inside of his cheek and then how he shakes his head and slumps forward. “You were there,” he tells the walls. Her eyes fall on an article about Barrow and her breath hitches. 

“Lydia was right. You were there. But, why was _I_ helping you?” He lets out a low breath and drops his head in his hands, his fingers rubbing his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“What am I missing?” he mutters again as he raises his head. “Because I’m missing something.” She watches as he sniffs, his eyes widening a moment before he gets up and walks towards the wall. 

There is a small moment where she sees the way he lightly brushes his fingers over something on his desk. The moment is gone when he is startled by something before he calls over his shoulder, “Coming, Dad!” and after three steps he disappears. 

Slowly, she gets up off the bed and moves towards the table, curiosity winning over every other feeling. She stands where he stood, her eyes studying the myriad of clues he had been obsessed with before she looks down at the spot where he had looked, if only for a brief moment. 

The only thing close to her is the framed picture of her art, and with shaking fingers, she moves it. She doesn’t know what she had expected to find, part of her thinks that she didn’t expect anything at all, but what she sees under the frame is a faux ring made out of red string that she had made herself all those weeks ago when she had been lying on her stomach as they had tried to make sense of Barrow together. 

Using the red string he had, she had knotted it around her finger, making a ring as they had discussed theory after theory. It had been Stiles who had cut it from the rest of the thread so he could use the string without compromising her project that had spouted from no other reason but to keep her hands busy. But, then they had hurried to go back to the school and it was left, forgotten, as so many meaningless things were. 

_But it wasn’t meaningless_ , a voice in her head tells her softly. _Not to Stiles_. 

She picks it up slowly and turns around only to see him standing at the other end of the bedroom watching her. She’s not sure if he’s here or if it’s just an echo, but she smiles through her tears as she puts the ring on her index finger. 

“I miss you,” she finds herself telling his image, because it’s true. She knows that he can’t hear her and it feels good to be that honest in months. 

And when he smiles sadly at her, she quickly wipes her eyes and exits his bedroom with the intention of leaving the house before the Sheriff comes back.


End file.
